Chapter Ten
Ashon
I’m halfway out of a production call when Renée’s message lands.
Nana just left the hospital. Did you know he was visiting your wife?
Ice sluices through my veins and for once I’m thankful for the pomposity of a motorcade that allows me to cut through traffic.
The SUV barely stops before I’m in motion. I don’t bother with waiting for busy elevators—four flights taken two at a time gets me where I need to be.
And in the last few seconds before I burst into the private wing, lungs burning, I’m abashed by the notion that I’m rushing to protect my wife from…my grandfather?
Sure, he wasn’t entirely happy when we announced we would be moving out of his house and immediate influence but do I really fear for her?
Or is this more terror of not making a bad situation I’ve created, worse? Of still being hesitant to admit the heaviest emotion to myself for fear of…of—
Cilla’s room is dim and quiet, but the air inside is charged, heavy with everything unspoken.
She sits propped against the pillows, arms crossed, face blotched with dried tears.
But the moment she sees me, she swipes a wrist across her cheek and lifts her chin, armour snapping into place like she’s prepping for war.
‘I know he was here. What did he say to you?’ My voice is hoarse, ragged with twisted emotions I barely keep leashed.
She doesn’t flinch. ‘What do you think? More Biney threats, more tossing about his power and might on people he deems smaller than him. Confirmation that trust is a fragile thing, especially when it’s misplaced.’
I grit my teeth at the anguish and fury in her voice.
‘Cilla, there’s nothing he can say that’ll make a difference to you and I.
You know that, don’t you?’ I’m aware I’m being vague, that damn stranglehold keeping me prisoner, which is ironic because vivid expression has been my mainstay, making me a billionaire long before I turned thirty.
She searches my gaze for a tight minute, probably looking for the same clarity before she shakes her head. ‘I don’t care. I’m leaving, Ashon. As soon as I’m cleared to fly, I’m going back to the States.’
A low throb ignites at the base of my skull. ‘Just so we’re clear, by the States you mean Los Angeles, correct?’
Her mouth works for a moment. ‘I guess you’ll find out, won’t you.’
My insides clench with steel knots. ‘Not fucking good enough, I’m afraid, wife. You’re not leaving me. Not with our agreement in place. Not with my child still in your womb.’
Her brows rise, slow and cool. ‘We can come to another arrangement—later. After the baby’s born.’
‘What arrangement?’ I step closer. ‘You call in for joint custody over FaceTime? Send postcards from Nebraska or Montana or some other place that isn’t where I am? That wasn’t the deal.’
‘Deals change,’ she snaps. ‘Especially when threats start flying from the lips of your family patriarch.’
‘What did he say?’ I repeat, harder, harsher than before. ‘I’m going to find out one way or the other so you might as well spill it.’
She meets my gaze squarely. ‘That he’ll destroy what’s left of the Rocksons if I don’t back off the land claim. That he “builds heirs” and doesn’t let them be led by ambition-mad wives.’ The laughter she tacks on has ‘as if’ written all over it.
And a sheet of shock goes through me, because it’s clear this woman doesn’t know her true power. That over and above the precious child she carries, my every other breath is fast-encroaching obsession levels where she’s concerned.
My hands curl into fists. I don’t even know I’m pacing until I hear my footsteps echo off the sterile tiles. ‘So that’s it?’ I snarl. ‘You run? Let him win?’
‘I’m not running. I’m surviving. That’s what people like me do.’
‘People like you?’ My laugh is hollow. ‘What does that mean?’
She lifts her chin higher. ‘It means I can’t afford to be part of your legacy soap opera. I knew the role I was playing. Botswana was a good script,’ she says quietly, eyes darting away. ‘Exceptional, even. But it was just make-believe.’
The words slice deeper than I expect. I reel from it, and I know she sees it because her face softens, regret catching in her expression. ‘Wasn’t it?’ she probes, a little more vulnerable now. ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’
I want to. God, I want to. But the words wedge in my throat.
So I do what I’ve always done. I pivot.
‘Maybe it was. Maybe you’re right,’ I say, my voice flatter than I feel. ‘So here’s the new third-act rewrite. You’re moving into my house in Bel-Air. We leave only after the doctors clear you and a medical team is on my jet. Non-negotiable.’
She stares at me, hollow-eyed, and for the first time I think she sees me not as a man but as the machinery of empire I was born into.
After a long silence, she nods. ‘Fine.’
I don’t know if it’s victory or failure. I move to the edge of the bed, but I don’t sit. My knuckles ache from clenching. My mind is a whirlwind.
Would my father have done this? Something cringes and dies inside me.
No. My father believed in freedom. In partnership. He never tried to dominate people no matter their status. And wasn’t that what he always said? Love without freedom is just control in disguise.
And here I am. Disguising.
But I can’t let her go. Can’t risk her being across the ocean where I can’t reach her. Not when everything inside me is already halfway unravelled.
And somewhere deep inside, I hear my father’s voice. Don’t become the thing your grandfather used to break me.
I want to promise I won’t.
But I don’t know if I can keep that promise.
As she lies back, too weary to hold the anger any more, I brush a damp curl from her temple. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t meet my eyes.
And that might be the worst part of all.
As she drifts into uneasy sleep, I wonder which of us I’ve condemned by doing this.
Her?
Or me?
Cilla
The Bel-Air mansion hasn’t changed, but I have.
It’s a strange, almost cruel symmetry, returning not as the help but as the wife. Not in a uniform, but in soft designer loungewear tailored to my swelling belly, carrying a child I never imagined would tie me so irrevocably to the man I once planned to forget.
I move through the foyer like a ghost retracing old steps. The place is pristine, cold, curated to the point of sterility. Ashon’s taste, or maybe Renée’s. Nothing of me here, except the bottles of my preferred shampoo in the guest suite he had prepared right next to his.
No, most likely not prepared. Commandeered.
‘My apartment in Koreatown…’ I say the moment I find him in the kitchen, casually sipping from a crystal tumbler like he’s not just rewritten my life. ‘I need to go and get my things.’
He doesn’t even flinch. ‘No need. I’ve had everything moved. Your things are in the third guest suite upstairs. You can sort through what you want to keep or dispose of when you’re stronger.’
My fingers curl around the edge of the island. ‘You had no right to do that without my permission.’
‘You’re pregnant,’ he says, deadpan. ‘I didn’t want you anywhere near that hovel lifting boxes or catching heavy things. It’s done. Let’s move on.’
I stare at him, every muscle taut. ‘So now you bulldoze every choice I make in the name of faux care and attention?’
His jaw flexes. ‘No. I bulldoze for you because I can. And because I care if you live in a shoebox with cracked tiles and a neighbour who argues with his dog.’
I blink. That…was not what I expected. But it doesn’t soften me. I don’t let it. ‘Well. Maybe you should’ve told me,’ I say. ‘I might’ve even said thank you.’
A beat of silence. Then, ‘I don’t need your thanks.’
‘No,’ I whisper, turning away. ‘Just my obedience.’
As I climb the stairs, I think about how, once upon a time, this man said he wished things could be like they were in Botswana. Simple. Joyful. Real.
And yet here we are back in the belly of the loathsome beast named hubris.
Upstairs, I find my belongings exactly where he said, arranged with precision. My books on documentaries. My film festival posters. Even my little worn-out notebook, set on the desk like it belongs. I should be grateful. But all I feel is…displaced.
When the laptop pings its familiar tone, I ignore it. Then curiosity and something more desperate gets the better of me.
Returning to my suite, I sit at my desk and open the email. I’m searching for a distraction but my heart is already racing a little because I know the distraction I’m searching for is specific. Something…anything to do with my husband.
It’s from Renée.
RE: Obibini-Treatment Notes
I should reply to say I’m no longer part of the great Biney team. Or better yet, delete the email.
But I don’t. My fingers hover, then move. I click it open.
It’s a production update. Scene breakdowns. Notes from the writers. A section left blank with a highlighted comment:
Cilla’s POV? She always sees the emotional arc others miss. Would love her input.
My heart thuds.
I haven’t thought about the Obibini project since the hospital.
I told myself I can’t afford to remain invested. Especially since I’d begun to imagine a future that didn’t hinge on legacy, but on love. On this new family I wasn’t anticipating but had kindled in Cap Ferrat and felt vastly possible in the fiery magic of Botswana.
But even before I can caution myself on the wisdom of it, I start to type.
Scene 27 works because it’s raw. Because he doesn’t trust her and she doesn’t trust herself. And that tension—that ache—isn’t about what they say, it’s about what they don’t.
My throat tightens as my fingers hover over the send button, and my eyes begin to sting and water.
This isn’t just about a movie any more. Of course it isn’t. It’s about me. Him. Us.
I shake as I hit send. I should feel powerful. Vindicated that I’m rising above.
Instead, I feel exposed. Because if I care about the work this much… I care about him.
And if I care about him…
Breath shuddering out, I press my hand to the gentle curve of my stomach, now firm under my cashmere sweater.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get back those thousand acres for my family.